


Dwarven Spirits and Honeysuckle

by pok3d3x



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Injury, Minor Injuries, Potions, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Shipping If You Squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pok3d3x/pseuds/pok3d3x
Summary: Four connected tales of times the White Wolf of Rivia needed potions. Four connected tales of his earnest, human bard taking note of the potions that kept his witcher alive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 274





	Dwarven Spirits and Honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> //Full Disclosure: I've only seen the Netflix Series and played through Chapter 1 of the first game, so my knowledge of the Witcher world is most likely as inaccurate as it is earnest. Thank you, internet wikis, for blessing me with anecdotes I can scrounge together into a plausible, cohesive story like a proper bard telling a story they didn't witness first hand… :)
> 
> This ficlet would take place early in their travels stretching into the first year.
> 
> First time writing fic in this fandom. Would love to hear what y'all think!

****

⁂ Part One ⁂

Since Geralt had lived the life forged for him, the life of a witcher, he had come to depend on the potions of his guild. They were toxic, so caustic to life itself that they'd kill a human, and even a mutant like himself had to be cautious in his consumption lest he blind himself or worse.

Over the decades, their craft and consumption had long ago ceased being interesting so much as vital, and he never dwelled on the pain they caused or the victory they wrought. When swarmed, he took Swallow so he could weather an onslaught of vicious bites. When in dark so oppressive even his wolf-like eyes failed him, he took Cat so he could see his enemies even better than they could see him. When he couldn't afford to slow for even a second during a fight, he took Tawny Owl so he could maintain his stamina past the limits even his inhuman body deemed impossible.

The first time someone commented on what he was taking took Geralt by such surprise, he turned couldn't find words for a few seconds, before simply settling for," What?" The bottle of murky orange liquid was still in hand, his thumb resting on the small cork and holding pressure.

"I asked what'cha got there. Looks mighty daunting for such a small package," Jaskier repeated himself with a chipper smile and a pat on the back as he passed passed the now frozen witcher.

"I said no touching," Geralt ground out, the bite that should have been there lost with how off-kilter he felt. No one casually patted him on the back like they were chums. That wasn't how humans interacted with him. Witches sometimes bore a little more grit and pressed boundaries, but the only magic that this human he couldn't shake bore was a silver tongue and apparently blatant disregard for his own life.

"Right, sorry, I'll remember that," the bard said, looking evenly split between guilty and insincere.

Geralt shook his head, trying to place what truly bothered him, and Jaskier asked once more," So, that potion you're about to down. What does it do?"

The witcher didn't bother answering, uncorking the Killer Whale potion and tipping his head back for the shot of acrid, viscous liquid. Jaskier had never seen anything like it, Geralt's eyes blinking and revealing his sclera to now be entirely black, similarly dark veins spreading lightly across his cheeks. 

Geralt ignored his gawking, used to humans being afraid after such a sight and mildly hoping this might be the kick the bard needed to finally leave him alone. Removing his heavier armor and tossing the empty bottle to the leaf littered ground, Geralt prepared his silver sword and dove into the deep river without a second thought.

Just as he told the family would be the case, their son was no longer alive, pulled from his horse and dragged undertow to his hopefully quick death. After a little over two minutes, he emerged from the inky depths, with what remained of the body over his shoulder and the severed tongue of the drowned dead that had been eating his corpse. The beast had been too busy savoring its meal to prepare for his well aimed lunge.

"Geralt! That—"

"Dead like I said," Geralt said, his lungs feeling too dry as he breathed above water once more. The potion was just wearing off and he was ready for his standard sight and breathing to return. It increased his sight underwater and vastly improved his ability to hold his breath, but it always felt unnatural—more so than his day to day existence—reacquainting himself with land once more.

Jaskier shook his head at Geralt's words, and pointed to the slimy cord of muscle he clutched at his side. "No, I was going to ask, are you holding a _tongue?_ "

"Proof," he gruffly explained. Jaskier had only recently joined him and hadn't seen much of what he had to prove he had actually finished a contract. Humans demanded blood, skulls, teeth… whatever stood out most about the creature eating their cattle or stealing their children.

His eyes often read the headline and dropped immediately to the requested evidence, backing up they were really dealing with a supernatural problem, and not just some cutpurse.

"So I can get it right in my song, what was that potion you took before diving in? You had to be underwater for near five minutes without a breath of air!"

Geralt hummed as if that were a satisfactory response and set the body and trophy down so he may don his full armor once more. He couldn't decide whether he was more annoyed or amused by Jaskier's insistence to embellish the truth. Even with a Killer Whale potion, he'd never be able to stay underwater for five minutes like the bard claimed. He doubted making this clear would change anything though, so he opted to ignore the man taking out his journal and taking note of this lackluster adventure.

"Potion… of… the…" Jaskier pursed his lips as he decided what to refer to this orange potion as. Of course orange had no rhyme, so a witty name would be difficult. With a defined scribble of his quill, he declared," Gills. Potion of the gills."

Geralt rolled his eyes unlike he usually felt the need to do.

"Just wait until you see the emotional faces of mothers hearing how you nobly brought this son home for a proper burial so his soul may find rest," Jaskier waxed romantically.

"Nothing noble about it. What I'm being paid for," Geralt dismissed, frowning as he realized just how much more he was speaking day to day with this bard insisting on following him. Jaskier certainly had no problem manning both sides of the conversation, but Geralt still found himself correcting and dismissing the man more than he'd ever had cause to before.

Jaskier laughed at this, and said," Oh, Geralt, how charming. I'm helping your reputation, not writing a textbook."

Geralt fixed his bright, orange eyes on the bard and disapprovingly reminded him," You needn't do either."

"Give it a month, and you'll be singing my praises with the same fervor my adoring fans will be begging to hear me sing your stories," Jaskier said with a confident smile.

With a doubtful hum at this, Geralt picked up the body and tongue once more and began waking. He didn't bother looking back to see if the bard was following him. He doubted he'd be so lucky to shake him now. 

****

⁂ Part Two ⁂

Geralt's eyes went wide for less than a second as he realized he wouldn't win the fight he found himself in if he didn't take a second potion. He was already close to green at the gills from the potency of the potion he'd consumed, but if he didn't finish this _now_ , the mutant may slip past him and back to his camp where Roach was tied up. That bard was there too, and he would probably feel a little remorse at the man's death despite constantly reinforcing that journeying with him was incredibly dangerous.

Deciding the risk was worth protecting those he camped with, Geralt growled as he slipped out the green vial from his belt and drank it quickly, his strength both building and waning. It hurt to breathe—it hurt to _exist_ —but his muscles contracted faster and stronger as he lunged for the giant centipede and drove his silver sword through its chitinous armor. He held on as it pulled him with it, gritting his teeth and wielding his heavy sword one handed.

Hacking and slashing was a better strategy than most gave it credit, and even as his eyes began to fail him, he cut at the beast with fervor that only protection could bring on. Like a mother lifting a broken cart from her child's leg, his heart pumped hard, if slow, and he wielded power beyond his unnatural limits.

He only ceased his brutish swings as he felt it go completely still beneath him. Grunting as he pushed himself off of the giant insect, a hoarse yell of pain left him as he used his sword to push himself to his feet. The poison that ran through his blood burned from the inside, and his vision swam as he tried to focus on the ground and find his path back to camp. He hoped Jaskier had started up a fire for him to meditate by, if he could manage to find his center through this level of toxicity in his blood.

He staggered, both hands clutching his sword's hilt like it was merely a walking cane, through the trees. Narrowing his eyes wasn't enough to make clear which trees were real and which were doubled hallucinations, and he verified the hard the way a few times, bashing his forehead and nose on a fair share of them.

"Shit! Geralt!"

Geralt looked up, face weary and his blood indistinguishable from that of the centipedes. "Bard," he croaked, eyes trying to place where in the dark woods Jaskier was standing. He hadn't thought he'd made it back yet, but the thought that he could finally stop walking was more beautiful to him right now than the prospect of limitless ale.

Making it only a step further before his knees gave out, Geralt grimaced as he dropped to the muddy forest floor and dropped his sword. He barely caught himself on all fours, just managing to plant his hands in time to keep himself somewhat upright. 

Jaskier was letting loose some creative obscenities as he rushed to Geralt's side and held the witcher's face in his hands. "Speak to me," he begged as he dropped down and held the man's face so he could get a good look at him. He took in the black veins pulsing under his pale skin and the solid, dark sclera of his eyes. He'd seen this frightening visage before, it happened when he drank potions, but something was different this time. 

"D-did you break your nose? It's bleeding," he said, and felt a little dumb as he did. He was supposed to be sharp witted and eloquent. Commenting on a broken nose when the man seemed to be bleeding from every inch of his skin was ridiculous.

"Nerve damage," Geralt muttered before coughing up blackened blood. It gurgled from his mouth, and he was thankful that Jaskier let go of his chin so he could bow his head and spit it out and free his airway.

"Wh-what do I—How can I help you?" Jaskier looked on in horror. When he got no immediate answer, he shook the man's shoulders and prompted," Geralt!"

With a heaving sigh as he let himself sink to the ground entirely, Geralt mumbled," Roach has… in my bag… A bottle with white liquid."

"White potion, right, yes. I can do that."

"Smells like… mead," Geralt expounded, knowing he would die if Jaskier grabbed the wrong one. He needed white honey to detoxify his body, and he needed it as fast as the wandering bard could procure it.

Jaskier helped him roll to his side so he didn't asphyxiate before the bard returned, then ran like hell back to camp. He'd only left—when having been explicitly told not to earlier—when he heard Geralt's pained yell echo through the forest. It had sounded so desperate, so different from the annoyed grunts and hums he doled out easily. Geralt didn't scream, especially in pain; Jaskier had felt it in his bones that something was wrong when he was proved right.

Roach startled at Jaskier's fast approach, but he called out soothingly," It's okay, girl. It's just me. Here to save your beloved rider." His nervous rattling words found a tune as he closed the distance, something in the back of his head saying this horse liked his singing, and sure enough she calmed as his hands reached her mane and combed through it.

She stamped a few times, upset and only barely less gifted in speech than her rider, but let him rifle through her saddle bags. There were a handful of potions stored carefully in one of the bags, and Jaskier squinted in the darkness as he tried to find one that held a white potion. His eyes landed on a plane bottle with such a liquid within, and he grabbed it out and popped the cork to smell it. Honey and alcohol bombarded his nose roughly, and he smiled with relief.

"We'll be back, girl. I promise. I'll bring your witcher back," Jaskier whispered to the mare, patting her neck reassuringly, before running back to Geralt.

The witcher was where he left him, labored breaths leaving him raspily.

"I got it. I got the potion you asked for," Jaskier said as he dropped to the ground and pulled Geralt close, propping him in his lap so that he may place the potion to his lips and tilt up his chin to coax it's syrupy contents down his throat.

The black veins receded, and Geralt wearily opened his eyes, now back to their orange, reflective selves.

"I got your potion, Geralt," Jaskier repeated, mostly to reassure himself.

He clucked his tongue in surprise at finding himself still alive after placing his life in the hands of the bard. The man could do more than carry a tune. "So you did," he said, his gravelly voice even rougher than usual.

Jaskier brushed the blood stained hair out of Geralt's face, a dopey grin plastered across his face as he breathed," You're going to be alight." He didn't sound like he was quite ready to believe himself until his breathy comment ended with a light chuckle.

"Just imagine the tale I can tell from this heroic moment," Jaskier said, more full voiced. "So verily slain the centipede found itself by the noble sacrifice of our beloved witcher, the White Wolf of Rivia, only for his trusty bard to swoop in with the potion that could save him yet…"

"No," Geralt coughed out as he pushed himself to sitting of his own power. "We never speak of this."

"Please, Geralt. Everyone loves a dramatic moment of fearing their hero may have fallen, only to find he has conquered death yet again! Tension is the bread and butter of heroic tales!"

Geralt covered his face with one hand as he gritted out," If anyone hears word of this, I will personally remove your tongue, bard."

"Ooh, threats of violence! So original."

Geralt was beginning to feel more clear headed, and though it would be slow going, he knew his health would return. He grimaced as he reached out for his sword and began to pull himself to his feet once more.

"Oh, honestly, Geralt. It is a wonder how you survived before I came along," Jaskier chided as he stood up and offered a hand to the witcher. His stomach rose to his throat and all of the clever words in his head flew away as Geralt accepted the support. He had never let himself display such weakness in front of Jaskier before, and it left the bard afraid of just how bad things would have been if he hadn't ignored Geralt's orders and came out to find him.

Jaskier quietly supported Geralt the rest of the way back to camp, wisely holding his tongue at the state of his bardic ensemble after hugging the madman so close to himself. Roach let out a worried whinny as they approached, and it was the normalcy Jaskier needed to find his voice again. "See, We've returned as promised, my fair Roach!"

The horse wasn't satisfied until Jaskier had brought Geralt all the way over, where he gratefully pushed away from the bard and leaned against his horse, patting her velvety muzzle reassuringly.

****

⁂ Part Three ⁂

"I'm not here to spill your trade secrets, Geralt," Jaskier said with a roll of his eyes. "But the name of the potion, _please_. It probably won't even make it into the song."

Geralt raised one eyebrow and hummed, an expression that could mean a million things, but Jaskier had learned to mean, _then why are you asking_ , in this particular circumstance.

"No good story is crafted from a lack of detail," Jaskier answered the silent question with an indignant huff.

Geralt ignored Jaskier's complaints as he continued to eat the mushy pot roast served for dinner at the rundown inn they were staying at tonight. He was beginning to wonder if the bard would ever stop talking, going on about how he was working diligently to improve the witcher's reception from town to town and all he wanted was some better details to work with. He stopped paying attention early on, just making a sound of acknowledgement from time to time, until Jaskier touched his elbow gently and pointed.

Following the direction with the expectation of being annoyed, Geralt breathed out sharply and let his eyes drift to whatever Jaskier deemed so important to physically touch him. His harsh expression melted to confusion as he saw a young girl, maybe six years old at the most, staring up at him with dark, brown eyes filled with wonder.

"Mama said the echinops was real bad," she said, swallowing hard at the intense attention placed upon her. "She said you did real good by us in killing them."

Geralt's brow furrowed as he looked back to Jaskier a little uncomfortably. What the fuck was he supposed to say here? He'd spoken to children before of course, but only the brusque conversations of hiring him on behalf of their parents, or the dead ones as the case often was.

Jaskier's eyebrows were raised in full attention, coupled with a positively ecstatic grin. He placed a hand on his loot as he nodded to Geralt enthusiastically, obviously quite pleased with himself.

Taking in a hearty breath, the little girl sang out," Toss a coin to your witcher! For valor or plenty!"

The bard tilted his head at the misheard lyrics, but resisted the urge to correct her.

She dug into the apron pocket of her work shift and flipped an oren in Geralt's direction. He didn't even look towards her as he raised his hand and caught it, his uncertainty only deepening as he waited for Jaskier to say something.

Taking the hint that Geralt wasn't going to say anything, Jaskier leaned closer—still locking eyes with Geralt—and said a little stiltedly," Thank you, young lady. Every oren helps our dear witcher save another town."

She gave a big smile and scurried away.

Silence sat between them for a few moments while Geralt tried to gather himself to say something. Jaskier held his tongue, keen to see how the fruits of his labors would be received.

"Water Hag Decoction."

Jaskier had been expecting a "thanks" or maybe even just a grunt, and his face pinched in bafflement. "Pardon?"

"The potion you asked about. Water Hag Decoction," Geralt expounded.

Understanding blossomed in his eyes and he breathed estatically. "Oh. Oh! Yes, perfect." Jaskier began writing in his journal, jotting down the information with flourish. " _Dark purple potion in scary bottle: Water Hag Decoction._ "

****

⁂ Part Four ⁂

He was out of potions, Geralt realized as he grabbed out his last vial. Empty glass bottles clinked together uselessly, and he pouted at how thoroughly unprepared he'd let himself become. Resolving to brew more potions when he returned to the inn, he took the Tawny Owl that was left and made do.

He was lucky had applied vampire oil to his sword yesterday, though it had to be almost dried out by now. The fleder descended upon him and he rolled out of the was just in time to miss its attack, swinging his sword back to guard himself as he pushed against the cobblestone and tried to get to his feet before the flier did.

It was a short battle, thankfully, as he the last potion he'd been forced to rely on wasn't very potent and wouldn't have pulled him through a long encounter. He held the bulging muscle of his neck tight as his lifeblood threatened to desert him on his journey back to the inn. There was rumored to be three more vampires in the district, all from the same cemetery, but the oil on his sword was wearing off and he didn't have the right potions brewed to finish the job tonight.

The tavern door was held open for him by another patron leaving, his wide eyes letting Geralt know the kind of remarks he was going to receive courtesy of Jaskier. He sighed and strode passed the man, wondering if he would be able to make it up to his room without the bard's notice.

He almost wished his luck for the night could be sapped out of having the properly oiled sword so that he could make it through the common area unseen. Jaskier must have just finished his performance, because he was casually chatting with a barmaid and perked up at seeing Geralt.

"Wow, how'd you manage to get so muddied up in the _city_? You look worse than that time the—"

"I need to meditate, bard. Leave me be," he moodily interrupted. His neck was sore beyond belief and he'd lost enough blood to be dizzy. He didn't need the bard prattling to distract him further. He had serious potion making ahead of him.

"I can be quiet," Jaskier insisted, miming the act of locking his mouth with a key.

Geralt hummed in a show of doubt, but didn't slow in his course any. He made it to the stairs quickly, but had to slow himself for a moment to avoid his vision swimming as he began to ascend.

"Woah, there. You should table the meditation for another day. You're bleeding like an undercooked steak."

He hadn't needed the advice of a human who didn't even know how to hold a sword all of his life, and he didn't need it now, Geralt thought a little irksomely. Geralt didn't acknowledge the bard's concern, and if anything, sped up his climbing of the staircase. He would be fine, the impossibly slow pulse of a witcher meant bleeding out—even if the vampire had aptly struck a major artery—took hours, not minutes.

"Let me dress it at the very least," Jaskier bidded, able to clamber up the stairs faster and open their door for his friend. Geralt had a hand on two rather grisley injuries, and Jaskier doubted either would benefit from a lack of pressure.

Geralt hummed in assent, his nose wrinkling at giving in to the bard, and sat near the wash basin so the bard could do what he pleased. 

"I don't suppose I'll be overstepping my bounds if I suggest a full bath…?" Jaskier sauntered into the room and circled the bath as enticingingly as he could. Geralt's eyes were boring holes through him. Pursing his lips and looking away like it hadn't been him to suggest such in the first place, he quickly followed up with," No? Right, well, first to see to that neck of yours…"

He'd never admit it, but having Jaskier around to tend to his injuries was convenient, even if the man knew nothing about medicine. Geralt didn't need a practiced hand, just someone to reach the places that were hard to see. A witcher was built of sturdy stuff, but it still helped to wrap up open wounds.

It hadn't been easy, but Geralt had learned to meditate through Jaskier's tooling around with his lute, singing broken melodies as he tried to find the right words, and general tomfoolery. When he traveled alone, he never found such difficulty ignoring the noise of the crowded tavern. It had to be the proximity he insisted on and the constant speech directed at him even if it was rhetorical.

Geralt laid out his supplies, rolling out a leather mat and emptying the contents of a small bag on it. The lute playing from behind him came to a tentative stop and he heard a gasp of disgust from Jaskier.

"Is that blood? In those bottles?"

Grumbling at the disturbance, Geralt began paring a mushroom and dropping the small pieces into a mortar. Jaskier was singing something about him drinking the blood of his enemies, and Geralt sighed and said," Ghoul's."

The lute playing came to an abrupt stop once more. "Come again?"

"It's ghoul's blood. I don't have enemies." He didn't. He only had people who wanted to kill him, and people who would pay him to kill monsters. He didn't harbor ill will towards those who fell at his blade. "And I thought you were supposed to be making people less afraid of me." 

"Well, sure, I was just playing around. I wouldn't sing that for an audience," Jaskier said with some levity. "But, sheesh, that stuff smelled rank when you were covered in it. And you're, what…" He casually gestured to the setup that wouldn't look out of place in an apothecary. "Going to _drink_ it?"

Geralt didn't answer him, just glad that the other had momentarily stopped his playing. Letting himself drop back into his trance like state, he continued his potion-craft and poured in some dwarven spirits before grinding the sewant mushrooms into paste.

When he finished, Geralt noted that the lute had been stowed away for the night that was growing close to dawn. Jaskier was still awake, writing in his journal, perhaps a lyric of how Geralt consumed the lifeblood of the undead. He raised an eyebrow at the bard who was deep in his writing and didn't look up, then sighed and began putting the potions he'd made away.

A few Black Blood, though he hated to rely on it if he had time to properly oil his sword; A handful of Swallow, always useful; some Thunderbolt to get him through tougher fights and opponents with thicker skin than he had; and two different decoctions, though he was also running low on mutagens. This would last him awhile; he didn't use them often. It was important to keep his stock up though, since when he needed them, they were typically the difference between life and death.

"Hey, uh, remember that potion you had me get? The night of the giant centipede?"

Geralt looked up and over his shoulder with one raised eyebrow. He'd thought Jaskier was finally distracted and silent enough to grant him peace.

"The white potion that smelled like mead."

Geralt remembered, frowning at the thought of how desperate he'd been to ask for help. He looked back to his makeshift potion brewing station and hummed to himself as he set to putting it away. "What about it?"

"Well, if you ever needed it again… What are the ingredients? Is it possible for a mere human to make it?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

A peel of laughter left the bard and he riposted," That was two. I could ask many more."

"Don't," Geralt ground out.

"I won't," Jaskier said with a yawn. "I'm just about to find some sleep actually, but I'd sleep better if you could answer those questions. Those two little, itsy-bitsy questions."

"I don't care how you sleep, so long as you let me sleep."

"Aw, but there's the rub, see? When I have trouble sleeping, I fiddle with my lute. All. Night. Long."

"Don't care if you masturbate," Geralt said brusquely, standing up and getting ready to sleep himself.

Hand to his chest as he gave an affronted gasp, Jaskier scoffed," I say, Geralt! Honestly, you should wash your mouth out when you finally take a ba—"

"White Honey," Geralt said, with an amused quirk of his lips as he looked to Jaskier putting on such a show. "Just Dwarven Spirits and Honeysuckle in equal parts."

Recipes were closely guarded, but he was too tired to care right now. It didn't matter if the bard went around singing the witcher secrets. There were no more witchers to be made, and the potions were deadly to those who imbibed them without the witcher mutation. Seeing the potential for this to find a bit of a body count, he warned," Witcher potions are poison to humans."

"I'd never drink those things, no worries there," Jaskier said with a drawn out gag. "I'm sure the smell of most of them is enough to knock a sane man on his ass!"

Geralt hummed at this, eyebrows quirking skeptically at Jaskier, before he looked away and set to finding sleep.

Jaskier carefully wrote in his to-do list," _Buy dwarven spirits and honeysuckle while in town_." Eyes resting on his quickly sleeping witcher, he smiled and thought that he'd take care of him. He'd not only improve Geralt's image from town to town, but he'd see to it that he had the ingredients he needed to brew the potions that kept him from becoming a slow witcher. A dead one.

Jaskier would do his part, and make sure that Geralt of Rivia had everything he needed to stay alive, so he could stay by his side.


End file.
